royalty by fate

zero | royalty by fate. ©

extended excerpt.

(preview warnings include
mentions of blood
and descriptive violence)

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King Kieran's obsidian gaze is a spear that pierces each member individually, sharpening with chips of gold. A smile graces his lips, flawless as it is deadly, the shards of his canines glimmering white, and his head tilts with the dangerously posed question, "Are you challenging me, council?"

That's what it comes down to: this child-called-to-the-principal's-office-like summons, the line of questioning like he's to be doubted—the insult won't be taken lightly.

A childhood stained in blood, shrouded in violence and carnage, cultivated in a constant state of rage and hatred because princes must sacrifice for the kingdom to fit the crown. Over and over again, he's experienced nightmares for their sake; continuously slaying the dragon but never complaining of the burns that marr his skin.

Each one might rule their sectors, possess strength and intelligence within their packs but he rules them all. None of them can fathom the strenuous duty it is to maintain a kingdom overseeing over a hundred thousand packs, much less take on the positions themself—not even collectively.

That position, honor and curse belongs to him. Him and him alone, with the blood of ancients flowing through his veins. A million years pass, and it's only increased in power. There's a reason why he's the first in his lineage to take it on without a betrothal.

Alpha Burke, the only one brave enough to speak while the rest vehemently shake their heads and tuck their chins, swallows. "No—no. Of course not, king. Never." Her voice wobbles, and she manages a millisecond of a glance for him to see the submission.

But the match has been struck, and a rapidly growing wildfire is branching through his system. The itch slithers beneath his skin and raises his hackles. His attention snaps beside her, and he's staring down black eyes that mirror his own—ones he knows thinks he stands a chance against him.

"Father, you?" The anger is a hunger but instead of curling in his gut, it's in his fists and burning in his knuckles. It's constantly growing ache he must sate, a roaring between his ears that won't quiet. "That half-breed, as you like to sneer and spat, is why you were spared before but if you want to refute that blessing, fine with me."

When he bares his teeth this time, the canines are fully elongated, and golden eyes reflect death, accusatory in flickering across them. His hands slam down on the table, a harsh echo of splintering wood then scrapping because his nails have stretched into claws.

"In fact, why don't I tear you all into pieces?" he bellows, a half-grin revealing the seriousness of the rhetorical pose. "Bring in a new collective of leaders since you all want to follow in my father's retired footsteps!"

"You're lashing out at the council because you disgraced us and embarrassed yourself by defending that thing!" the former king snarls, resounding off the meeting chamber walls. "Maybe I made an error in granting your coronation."

His palms collide with the table once more, and it cracks! in two. A fifty year old relic designed to withstand the formidable strength lycans possess, and it crumbles instantaneously. The entire room flinches at such a display while he crushes its remnants beneath his hulking stature.

"If you think you can take the crown from me, try." The white in his eyes dissipates into darkness, and he rips his suit-jacket down his broad shoulders. "I'm going to enjoy painting these walls with your blood."